Last Breath
April 7 2010


Far enough up
you become aware
of breathing.
Precious air,
when your last breath
is 3 minutes from the end.

You run
out of breath
climbing a single set of stairs,
pausing, gasping
death-grip on the banister.
But there is a clarity to things
so close to the stratosphere,
the light more pure
the spectrum sharper.
Except the sun sets fast,
disappearing behind canyon walls
claustrophobic mountains.

And with early dusk
the temperature plummets,
as thin rarefied air
releases its meagre heat.
Sea level was a heavy blanket
a fluffy comforter;
2 miles up
is a single cotton sheet,
shivering, sleepless.

Here, the night is darker
the stars, laser-sharp
the sky
a hard black dome.
You feel you could reach up, on tip-toe,
strain just far enough
your finger-tips touch
the cold black void.
The vast vacuum
of outer space,
and the eggshell atmosphere of earth,
as thin
as varnish on a basketball.

Day breaks
sudden, late.
The morning sun penetrates
suffusing your body with heat.
Its unfiltered light
burns quickly
makes your eyes water,
will turn the soft clear lens
hard and dark.

Sound doesn’t carry
in this rarefied air.
Your voice is reedy, weak,
you feel deaf, and speechless.
So you listen to yourself —
your racing pulse
and rasping breath,
fevered thoughts
rushing through your head.

Down in the valley
the air is just as transparent,
but you can see it in the wind
against your skin
tousling your hair
running.
Its thickness fills your lungs,
and you breathe
unconsciously.
While here, every breath is a struggle.

Which keeps you grateful
and humble.
The intensity of existence
when it’s always
just 3 minutes left to live.